THE RICH BOY

by

F. Scott Fitzgerald (1896-1940)

Red Book (January and February 1926)

Begin with an individual, and before you know it you find that
you have created a type; begin with a type, and you find that you
have created--nothing. That is because we are all queer fish,
queerer behind our faces and voices than we want any one to know
or than we know ourselves. When I hear a man proclaiming himself
an "average, honest, open fellow," I feel pretty sure that he has
some definite and perhaps terrible abnormality which he has
agreed to conceal--and his protestation of being average and
honest and open is his way of reminding himself of his
misprision.

There are no types, no plurals. There is a rich boy, and this
is his and not his brothers' story. All my life I have lived
among his brothers but this one has been my friend. Besides, if I
wrote about his brothers I should have to begin by attacking all
the lies that the poor have told about the rich and the rich have
told about themselves--such a wild structure they have erected
that when we pick up a book about the rich, some instinct
prepares us for unreality. Even the intelligent and impassioned
reporters of life have made the country of the rich as unreal as
fairy-land.

Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from
you and me. They possess and enjoy early, and it does something
to them, makes them soft where we are hard, and cynical where we
are trustful, in a way that, unless you were born rich, it is
very difficult to understand. They think, deep in their hearts,
that they are better than we are because we had to discover the
compensations and refuges of life for ourselves. Even when they
enter deep into our world or sink below us, they still think that
they are better than we are. They are different. The only way I
can describe young Anson Hunter is to approach him as if he were
a foreigner and cling stubbornly to my point of view. If I accept
his for a moment I am lost--I have nothing to show but a
preposterous movie.

II

Anson was the eldest of six children who would some day divide
a fortune of fifteen million dollars, and he reached the age of
reason--is it seven?--at the beginning of the century when daring
young women were already gliding along Fifth Avenue in electric
"mobiles." In those days he and his brother had an English
governess who spoke the language very clearly and crisply and
well, so that the two boys grew to speak as she did--their words
and sentences were all crisp and clear and not run together as
ours are. They didn't talk exactly like English children but
acquired an accent that is peculiar to fashionable people in the
city of New York.

In the summer the six children were moved from the house on
71st Street to a big estate in northern Connecticut. It was not a
fashionable locality--Anson's father wanted to delay as long as
possible his children's knowledge of that side of life. He was a
man somewhat superior to his class, which composed New York
society, and to his period, which was the snobbish and formalized
vulgarity of the Gilded Age, and he wanted his sons to learn
habits of concentration and have sound constitutions and grow up
into right-living and successful men. He and his wife kept an eye
on them as well as they were able until the two older boys went
away to school, but in huge establishments this is difficult--it
was much simpler in the series of small and medium-sized houses
in which my own youth was spent--I was never far out of the reach
of my mother's voice, of the sense of her presence, her approval
or disapproval.

Anson's first sense of his superiority came to him when he
realized the half-grudging American deference that was paid to
him in the Connecticut village. The parents of the boys he played
with always inquired after his father and mother, and were
vaguely excited when their own children were asked to the
Hunters' house. He accepted this as the natural state of things,
and a sort of impatience with all groups of which he was not the
center--in money, in position, in authority--remained with him
for the rest of his life. He disdained to struggle with other
boys for precedence--he expected it to be given him freely, and
when it wasn't he withdrew into his family. His family was
sufficient, for in the East money is still a somewhat feudal
thing, a clan-forming thing. In the snobbish West, money
separates families to form "sets."

At eighteen, when he went to New Haven, Anson was tall and
thick-set, with a clear complexion and a healthy color from the
ordered life he had led in school. His hair was yellow and grew
in a funny way on his head, his nose was beaked--these two things
kept him from being handsome--but he had a confident charm and a
certain brusque style, and the upper-class men who passed him on
the street knew without being told that he was a rich boy and had
gone to one of the best schools. Nevertheless, his very
superiority kept him from being a success in college--the
independence was mistaken for egotism, and the refusal to accept
Yale standards with the proper awe seemed to belittle all those
who had. So, long before he graduated, he began to shift the
center of his life to New York.

He was at home in New York--there was his own house with "the
kind of servants you can't get any more"--and his own family, of
which, because of his good humor and a certain ability to make
things go, he was rapidly becoming the center, and the
débutante parties, and the correct manly world of the
men's clubs, and the occasional wild spree with the gallant girls
whom New Haven only knew from the fifth row. His aspirations were
conventional enough--they included even the irreproachable shadow
he would some day marry, but they differed from the aspirations
of the majority of young men in that there was no mist over them,
none of that quality which is variously known as "idealism" or
"illusion." Anson accepted without reservation the world of high
finance and high extravagance, of divorce and dissipation, of
snobbery and of privilege. Most of our lives end as a
compromise--it was as a compromise that his life began.

He and I first met in the late summer of 1917 when he was just
out of Yale, and, like the rest of us, was swept up into the
systematized hysteria of the war. In the blue-green uniform of
the naval aviation he came down to Pensacola, where the hotel
orchestras played "I'm sorry, dear," and we young officers danced
with the girls. Every one liked him, and though he ran with the
drinkers and wasn't an especially good pilot, even the
instructors treated him with a certain respect. He was always
having long talks with them in his confident, logical
voice--talks which ended by his getting himself, or, more
frequently, another officer, out of some impending trouble. He
was convivial, bawdy, robustly avid for pleasure, and we were all
surprised when he fell in love with a conservative and rather
proper girl.

Her name was Paula Legendre, a dark, serious beauty from
somewhere in California. Her family kept a winter residence just
outside of town, and in spite of her primness she was enormously
popular; there is a large class of men whose egotism can't endure
humor in a woman. But Anson wasn't that sort, and I couldn't
understand the attraction of her "sincerity"--that was the thing
to say about her--for his keen and somewhat sardonic mind.

Nevertheless, they fell in love--and on her terms. He no
longer joined the twilight gathering at the De Sota bar, and
whenever they were seen together they were engaged in a long,
serious dialogue, which must have gone on several weeks. Long
afterward he told me that it was not about anything in particular
but was composed on both sides of immature and even meaningless
statements--the emotional content that gradually came to fill it
grew up not out of the words but out of its enormous seriousness.
It was a sort of hypnosis. Often it was interrupted, giving way
to that emasculated humor we call fun; when they were alone it
was resumed again, solemn, low-keyed, and pitched so as to give
each other a sense of unity in feeling and thought. They came to
resent any interruptions of it, to be unresponsive to
facetiousness about life, even to the mild cynicism of their
contemporaries. They were only happy when the dialogue was going
on, and its seriousness bathed them like the amber glow of an
open fire. Toward the end there came an interruption they did not
resent--it began to be interrupted by passion.

Oddly enough, Anson was as engrossed in the dialogue as she
was and as profoundly affected by it, yet at the same time aware
that on his side much was insincere, and on hers much was merely
simple. At first, too, he despised her emotional simplicity as
well, but with his love her nature deepened and blossomed, and he
could despise it no longer. He felt that if he could enter into
Paula's warm safe life he would be happy. The long preparation of
the dialogue removed any constraint--he taught her some of what
he had learned from more adventurous women, and she responded
with a rapt holy intensity. One evening after a dance they agreed
to marry, and he wrote a long letter about her to his mother. The
next day Paula told him that she was rich, that she had a
personal fortune of nearly a million dollars.

III

It was exactly as if they could say "Neither of us has
anything: we shall be poor together"--just as delightful that
they should be rich instead. It gave them the same communion of
adventure. Yet when Anson got leave in April, and Paula and her
mother accompanied him North, she was impressed with the standing
of his family in New York and with the scale on which they lived.
Alone with Anson for the first time in the rooms where he had
played as a boy, she was filled with a comfortable emotion, as
though she were pre-eminently safe and taken care of. The
pictures of Anson in a skull cap at his first school, of Anson on
horseback with the sweetheart of a mysterious forgotten summer,
of Anson in a gay group of ushers and bridesmaid at a wedding,
made her jealous of his life apart from her in the past, and so
completely did his authoritative person seem to sum up and typify
these possessions of his that she was inspired with the idea of
being married immediately and returning to Pensacola as his
wife.

But an immediate marriage wasn't discussed--even the
engagement was to be secret until after the war. When she
realized that only two days of his leave remained, her
dissatisfaction crystallized in the intention of making him as
unwilling to wait as she was. They were driving to the country
for dinner and she determined to force the issue that night.

Now a cousin of Paula's was staying with them at the Ritz, a
severe, bitter girl who loved Paula but was somewhat jealous of
her impressive engagement, and as Paula was late in dressing, the
cousin, who wasn't going to the party, received Anson in the
parlor of the suite.

Anson had met friends at five o'clock and drunk freely and
indiscreetly with them for an hour. He left the Yale Club at a
proper time, and his mother's chauffeur drove him to the Ritz,
but his usual capacity was not in evidence, and the impact of the
steam-heated sitting-room made him suddenly dizzy. He knew it,
and he was both amused and sorry.

Paula's cousin was twenty-five, but she was exceptionally
naïve, and at first failed to realize what was up. She had
never met Anson before, and she was surprised when he mumbled
strange information and nearly fell off his chair, but until
Paula appeared it didn't occur to her that what she had taken for
the odor of a dry-cleaned uniform was really whiskey. But Paula
understood as soon as she appeared; her only thought was to get
Anson away before her mother saw him, and at the look in her eyes
the cousin understood too.

When Paula and Anson descended to the limousine they found two
men inside, both asleep; they were the men with whom he had been
drinking at the Yale Club, and they were also going to the party.
He had entirely forgotten their presence in the car. On the way
to Hempstead they awoke and sang. Some of the songs were rough,
and though Paula tried to reconcile herself to the fact that
Anson had few verbal inhibitions, her lips tightened with shame
and distaste.

Back at the hotel the cousin, confused and agitated,
considered the incident, and then walked into Mrs. Legendre's
bedroom, saying: "Isn't he funny?"

"Who is funny?"

"Why--Mr. Hunter. He seemed so funny."

Mrs. Legendre looked at her sharply.

"How is he funny?"

"Why, he said he was French. I didn't know he was French."

"That's absurd. You must have misunderstood." She smiled: "It
was a joke."

The cousin shook her head stubbornly.

"No. He said he was brought up in France. He said he couldn't
speak any English, and that's why he couldn't talk to me. And he
couldn't!"

Mrs. Legendre looked away with impatience just as the cousin
added thoughtfully, "Perhaps it was because he was so drunk," and
walked out of the room.

This curious report was true. Anson, finding his voice thick
and uncontrollable, had taken the unusual refuge of announcing
that he spoke no English. Years afterward he used to tell that
part of the story, and he invariably communicated the uproarious
laughter which the memory aroused in him.

Five times in the next hour Mrs. Legendre tried to get
Hempstead on the phone. When she succeeded, there was a
ten-minute delay before she heard Paula's voice on the wire.

"Cousin Jo told me Anson was intoxicated."

"Oh, no. . . ."

"Oh, yes. Cousin Jo says he was intoxicated. He told her he
was French, and fell off his chair and behaved as if he was very
intoxicated. I don't want you to come home with him."

"Mother, he's all right! Please don't worry about--"

"But I do worry. I think it's dreadful. I want you to promise
me not to come home with him."

"I'll take care of it, mother. . . ."

"I don't want you to come home with him."

"All right, mother. Good-by."

"Be sure now, Paula. Ask some one to bring you."

Deliberately Paula took the receiver from her ear and hung it
up. Her face was flushed with helpless annoyance. Anson was
stretched asleep out in a bedroom up-stairs, while the
dinner-party below was proceeding lamely toward conclusion.

The hour's drive had sobered him somewhat--his arrival was
merely hilarious--and Paula hoped that the evening was not
spoiled, after all, but two imprudent cocktails before dinner
completed the disaster. He talked boisterously and somewhat
offensively to the party at large for fifteen minutes, and then
slid silently under the table; like a man in an old print--but,
unlike an old print, it was rather horrible without being at all
quaint. None of the young girls present remarked upon the
incident--it seemed to merit only silence. His uncle and two
other men carried him up-stairs, and it was just after this that
Paula was called to the phone.

An hour later Anson awoke in a fog of nervous agony, through
which he perceived after a moment the figure of his uncle Robert
standing by the door.

". . . I said are you better?"

"What?"

"Do you feel better, old man?"

"Terrible," said Anson.

"I'm going to try you on another bromo-seltzer. If you can
hold it down, it'll do you good to sleep."

With an effort Anson slid his legs from the bed and stood
up.

"I'm all right," he said dully.

"Take it easy."

"I thin' if you gave me a glassbrandy I could go
down-stairs."

"Oh, no--"

"Yes, that's the only thin'. I'm all right now. . . . I
suppose I'm in Dutch dow' there."

"They know you're a little under the weather," said his uncle
deprecatingly. "But don't worry about it. Schuyler didn't even
get here. He passed away in the locker-room over at the
Links."

Indifferent to any opinion, except Paula's, Anson was
nevertheless determined to save the débris of the evening,
but when after a cold bath he made his appearance most of the
party had already left. Paula got up immediately to go home.

In the limousine the old serious dialogue began. She had known
that he drank, she admitted, but she had never expected anything
like this--it seemed to her that perhaps they were not suited to
each other, after all. Their ideas about life were too different,
and so forth. When she finished speaking, Anson spoke in turn,
very soberly. Then Paula said she'd have to think it over; she
wouldn't decide to-night; she was not angry but she was terribly
sorry. Nor would she let him come into the hotel with her, but
just before she got out of the car she leaned and kissed him
unhappily on the cheek.

The next afternoon Anson had a long talk with Mrs. Legendre
while Paula sat listening in silence. It was agreed that Paula
was to brood over the incident for a proper period and then, if
mother and daughter thought it best, they would follow Anson to
Pensacola. On his part he apologized with sincerity and
dignity--that was all; with every card in her hand Mrs. Legendre
was unable to establish any advantage over him. He made no
promises, showed no humility, only delivered a few serious
comments on life which brought him off with rather a moral
superiority at the end. When they came South three weeks later,
neither Anson in his satisfaction nor Paula in her relief at the
reunion realized that the psychological moment had passed
forever.

IV

He dominated and attracted her, and at the same time filled
her with anxiety. Confused by his mixture of solidity and
self-indulgence, of sentiment and cynicism--incongruities which
her gentle mind was unable to resolve--Paula grew to think of him
as two alternating personalities. When she saw him alone, or at a
formal party, or with his casual inferiors, she felt a tremendous
pride in his strong, attractive presence, the paternal,
understanding stature of his mind. In other company she became
uneasy when what had been a fine imperviousness to mere gentility
showed its other face. The other face was gross, humorous,
reckless of everything but pleasure. It startled her mind
temporarily away from him, even led her into a short covert
experiment with an old beau, but it was no use--after four months
of Anson's enveloping vitality there was an anæmic pallor
in all other men.

In July he was ordered abroad, and their tenderness and desire
reached a crescendo. Paula considered a last-minute
marriage--decided against it only because there were always
cocktails on his breath now, but the parting itself made her
physically ill with grief. After his departure she wrote him long
letters of regret for the days of love they had missed by
waiting. In August Anson's plane slipped down into the North Sea.
He was pulled onto a destroyer after a night in the water and
sent to hospital with pneumonia; the armistice was signed before
he was finally sent home.

Then, with every opportunity given back to them, with no
material obstacle to overcome, the secret weavings of their
temperaments came between them, drying up their kisses and their
tears, making their voices less loud to one another, muffling the
intimate chatter of their hearts until the old communication was
only possible by letters, from far away. One afternoon a society
reporter waited for two hours in the Hunters' house for a
confirmation of their engagement. Anson denied it; nevertheless
an early issue carried the report as a leading paragraph--they
were "constantly seen together at Southampton, Hot Springs, and
Tuxedo Park." But the serious dialogue had turned a corner into a
long-sustained quarrel, and the affair was almost played out.
Anson got drunk flagrantly and missed an engagement with her,
whereupon Paula made certain behavioristic demands. His despair
was helpless before his pride and his knowledge of himself: the
engagement was definitely broken.

"Dearest," said their letters now, "Dearest, Dearest, when I
wake up in the middle of the night and realize that after all it
was not to be, I feel that I want to die. I can't go on living
any more. Perhaps when we meet this summer we may talk things
over and decide differently--we were so excited and sad that day,
and I don't feel that I can live all my life without you. You
speak of other people. Don't you know there are no other people
for me, but only you. . . ."

But as Paula drifted here and there around the East she would
sometimes mention her gaieties to make him wonder. Anson was too
acute to wonder. When he saw a man's name in her letters he felt
more sure of her and a little disdainful--he was always superior
to such things. But he still hoped that they would some day
marry.

Meanwhile he plunged vigorously into all the movement and
glitter of post-bellum New York, entering a brokerage house,
joining half a dozen clubs, dancing late, and moving in three
worlds--his own world, the world of young Yale graduates, and
that section of the half-world which rests one end on Broadway.
But there was always a thorough and infractible eight hours
devoted to his work in Wall Street, where the combination of his
influential family connection, his sharp intelligence, and his
abundance of sheer physical energy brought him almost immediately
forward. He had one of those invaluable minds with partitions in
it; sometimes he appeared at his office refreshed by less than an
hour's sleep, but such occurrences were rare. So early as 1920
his income in salary and commissions exceeded twelve thousand
dollars.

As the Yale tradition slipped into the past he became more and
more of a popular figure among his classmates in New York, more
popular than he had ever been in college. He lived in a great
house, and had the means of introducing young men into other
great houses. Moreover, his life already seemed secure, while
theirs, for the most part, had arrived again at precarious
beginnings. They commenced to turn to him for amusement and
escape, and Anson responded readily, taking pleasure in helping
people and arranging their affairs.

There were no men in Paula's letters now, but a note of
tenderness ran through them that had not been there before. From
several sources he heard that she had "a heavy beau," Lowell
Thayer, a Bostonian of wealth and position, and though he was
sure she still loved him, it made him uneasy to think that he
might lose her, after all. Save for one unsatisfactory day she
had not been in New York for almost five months, and as the
rumors multiplied he became increasingly anxious to see her. In
February he took his vacation and went down to Florida.

Palm Beach sprawled plump and opulent between the sparkling
sapphire of Lake Worth, flawed here and there by house-boats at
anchor, and the great turquoise bar of the Atlantic Ocean. The
huge bulks of the Breakers and the Royal Poinciana rose as twin
paunches from the bright level of the sand, and around them
clustered the Dancing Glade, Bradley's House of Chance, and a
dozen modistes and milliners with goods at triple prices from New
York. Upon the trellissed veranda of the Breakers two hundred
women stepped right, stepped left, wheeled, and slid in that then
celebrated calisthenic known as the double-shuffle, while in
half-time to the music two thousand bracelets clicked up and down
on two hundred arms.

At the Everglades Club after dark Paula and Lowell Thayer and
Anson and a casual fourth played bridge with hot cards. It seemed
to Anson that her kind, serious face was wan and tired--she had
been around now for four, five, years. He had known her for
three.

"Two spades."

"Cigarette? . . . Oh, I beg your pardon. By me."

"By."

"I'll double three spades."

There were a dozen tables of bridge in the room, which was
filling up with smoke. Anson's eyes met Paula's, held them
persistently even when Thayer's glance fell between them. . .
.

"What was bid?" he asked abstractedly.

"Rose of Washington Square"

sang the young people in the corners:

"I'm withering thereIn basement air--"

The smoke banked like fog, and the opening of a door filled
the room with blown swirls of ectoplasm. Little Bright Eyes
streaked past the tables seeking Mr. Conan Doyle among the
Englishmen who were posing as Englishmen about the lobby.

"You could cut it with a knife."

". . . cut it with a knife."

". . . a knife."

At the end of the rubber Paula suddenly got up and spoke to
Anson in a tense, low voice. With scarcely a glance at Lowell
Thayer, they walked out the door and descended a long flight of
stone steps--in a moment they were walking hand in hand along the
moonlit beach.

"Darling, darling. . . ." They embraced recklessly,
passionately, in a shadow. . . . Then Paula drew back her face to
let his lips say what she wanted to hear--she could feel the
words forming as they kissed again. . . . Again she broke away,
listening, but as he pulled her close once more she realized that
he had said nothing--only "Darling! Darling!" in that
deep, sad whisper that always made her cry. Humbly, obediently,
her emotions yielded to him and the tears streamed down her face,
but her heart kept on crying: "Ask me--oh, Anson, dearest, ask
me!"

"Paula. . . . Paula!"

The words wrung her heart like hands, and Anson, feeling her
tremble, knew that emotion was enough. He need say no more,
commit their destinies to no practical enigma. Why should he,
when he might hold her so, biding his own time, for another
year--forever? He was considering them both, her more than
himself. For a moment, when she said suddenly that she must go
back to her hotel, he hesitated, thinking, first, "This is the
moment, after all," and then: "No, let it wait--she is mine. . .
."

He had forgotten that Paula too was worn away inside with the
strain of three years. Her mood passed forever in the night.

He went back to New York next morning filled with a certain
restless dissatisfaction. There was a pretty débutante he
knew in his car, and for two days they took their meals together.
At first he told her a little about Paula and invented an
esoteric incompatibility that was keeping them apart. The girl
was of a wild, impulsive nature, and she was flattered by Anson's
confidences. Like Kipling's soldier, he might have possessed
himself of most of her before he reached New York, but luckily he
was sober and kept control. Late in April, without warning, he
received a telegram from Bar Harbor in which Paula told him that
she was engaged to Lowell Thayer, and that they would be married
immediately in Boston. What he never really believed could happen
had happened at last.

Anson filled himself with whiskey that morning, and going to
the office, carried on his work without a break--rather with a
fear of what would happen if he stopped. In the evening he went
out as usual, saying nothing of what had occurred; he was
cordial, humorous, unabstracted. But one thing he could not
help--for three days, in any place, in any company, he would
suddenly bend his head into his hands and cry like a child.

V

In 1922 when Anson went abroad with the junior partner to
investigate some London loans, the journey intimated that he was
to be taken into the firm. He was twenty-seven now, a little
heavy without being definitely stout, and with a manner older
than his years. Old people and young people liked him and trusted
him, and mothers felt safe when their daughters were in his
charge, for he had a way, when he came into a room, of putting
himself on a footing with the oldest and most conservative people
there. "You and I," he seemed to say, "we're solid. We
understand."

He had an instinctive and rather charitable knowledge of the
weaknesses of men and women, and, like a priest, it made him the
more concerned for the maintenance of outward forms. It was
typical of him that every Sunday morning he taught in a
fashionable Episcopal Sunday-school--even though a cold shower
and a quick change into a cutaway coat were all that separated
him from the wild night before. Once, by some mutual instinct,
several children got up from the front row and moved to the last.
He told this story frequently, and it was usually greeted with
hilarious laughter.

After his father's death he was the practical head of his
family, and, in effect, guided the destinies of the younger
children. Through a complication his authority did not extend to
his father's estate, which was administrated by his Uncle Robert,
who was the horsey member of the family, a good-natured,
hard-drinking member of that set which centers about Wheatley
Hills.

Uncle Robert and his wife, Edna, had been great friends of
Anson's youth, and the former was disappointed when his nephew's
superiority failed to take a horsey form. He backed him for a
city club which was the most difficult in America to enter--one
could only join if one's family had "helped to build up New York"
(or, in other words, were rich before 1880)--and when Anson,
after his election, neglected it for the Yale Club, Uncle Robert
gave him a little talk on the subject. But when on top of that
Anson declined to enter Robert Hunter's own conservative and
somewhat neglected brokerage house, his manner grew cooler. Like
a primary teacher who has taught all he knew, he slipped out of
Anson's life.

There were so many friends in Anson's life--scarcely one for
whom he had not done some unusual kindness and scarcely one whom
he did not occasionally embarrass by his bursts of rough
conversation or his habit of getting drunk whenever and however
he liked. It annoyed him when any one else blundered in that
regard--about his own lapses he was always humorous. Odd things
happened to him and he told them with infectious laughter.

I was working in New York that spring, and I used to lunch
with him at the Yale Club, which my university was sharing until
the completion of our own. I had read of Paula's marriage, and
one afternoon, when I asked him about her, something moved him to
tell me the story. After that he frequently invited me to family
dinners at his house and behaved as though there was a special
relation between us, as though with his confidence a little of
that consuming memory had passed into me.

I found that despite the trusting mothers, his attitude toward
girls was not indiscriminately protective. It was up to the
girl--if she showed an inclination toward looseness, she must
take care of herself, even with him.

"Life," he would explain sometimes, "has made a cynic of
me."

By life he meant Paula. Sometimes, especially when he was
drinking, it became a little twisted in his mind, and he thought
that she had callously thrown him over.

This "cynicism," or rather his realization that naturally fast
girls were not worth sparing, led to his affair with Dolly
Karger. It wasn't his only affair in those years, but it came
nearest to touching him deeply, and it had a profound effect upon
his attitude toward life.

Dolly was the daughter of a notorious "publicist" who had
married into society. She herself grew up into the Junior League,
came out at the Plaza, and went to the Assembly; and only a few
old families like the Hunters could question whether or not she
"belonged," for her picture was often in the papers, and she had
more enviable attention than many girls who undoubtedly did. She
was dark-haired, with carmine lips and a high, lovely color,
which she concealed under pinkish-gray powder all through the
first year out, because high color was
unfashionable--Victorian-pale was the thing to be. She wore
black, severe suits and stood with her hands in her pockets
leaning a little forward, with a humorous restraint on her face.
She danced exquisitely--better than anything she liked to
dance--better than anything except making love. Since she was ten
she had always been in love, and, usually, with some boy who
didn't respond to her. Those who did--and there were many--bored
her after a brief encounter, but for her failures she reserved
the warmest spot in her heart. When she met them she would always
try once more--sometimes she succeeded, more often she
failed.

It never occurred to this gypsy of the unattainable that there
was a certain resemblance in those who refused to love her--they
shared a hard intuition that saw through to her weakness, not a
weakness of emotion but a weakness of rudder. Anson perceived
this when he first met her, less than a month after Paula's
marriage. He was drinking rather heavily, and he pretended for a
week that he was falling in love with her. Then he dropped her
abruptly and forgot--immediately he took up the commanding
position in her heart.

Like so many girls of that day Dolly was slackly and
indiscreetly wild. The unconventionality of a slightly older
generation had been simply one facet of a post-war movement to
discredit obsolete manners--Dolly's was both older and shabbier,
and she saw in Anson the two extremes which the emotionally
shiftless woman seeks, an abandon to indulgence alternating with
a protective strength. In his character she felt both the
sybarite and the solid rock, and these two satisfied every need
of her nature.

She felt that it was going to be difficult, but she mistook
the reason--she thought that Anson and his family expected a more
spectacular marriage, but she guessed immediately that her
advantage lay in his tendency to drink.

They met at the large débutante dances, but as her
infatuation increased they managed to be more and more together.
Like most mothers, Mrs. Karger believed that Anson was
exceptionally reliable, so she allowed Dolly to go with him to
distant country clubs and suburban houses without inquiring
closely into their activities or questioning her explanations
when they came in late. At first these explanations might have
been accurate, but Dolly's worldly ideas of capturing Anson were
soon engulfed in the rising sweep of her emotion. Kisses in the
back of taxis and motor-cars were no longer enough; they did a
curious thing:

They dropped out of their world for a while and made another
world just beneath it where Anson's tippling and Dolly's
irregular hours would be less noticed and commented on. It was
composed, this world, of varying elements--several of Anson's
Yale friends and their wives, two or three young brokers and bond
salesmen and a handful of unattached men, fresh from college,
with money and a propensity to dissipation. What this world
lacked in spaciousness and scale it made up for by allowing them
a liberty that it scarcely permitted itself. Moreover, it
centered around them and permitted Dolly the pleasure of a faint
condescension--a pleasure which Anson, whose whole life was a
condescension from the certitudes of his childhood, was unable to
share.

He was not in love with her, and in the long feverish winter
of their affair he frequently told her so. In the spring he was
weary--he wanted to renew his life at some other
source--moreover, he saw that either he must break with her now
or accept the responsibility of a definite seduction. Her
family's encouraging attitude precipitated his decision--one
evening when Mr. Karger knocked discreetly at the library door to
announce that he had left a bottle of old brandy in the
dining-room, Anson felt that life was hemming him in. That night
he wrote her a short letter in which he told her that he was
going on his vacation, and that in view of all the circumstances
they had better meet no more.

It was June. His family had closed up the house and gone to
the country, so he was living temporarily at the Yale Club. I had
heard about his affair with Dolly as it developed--accounts
salted with humor, for he despised unstable women, and granted
them no place in the social edifice in which he believed--and
when he told me that night that he was definitely breaking with
her I was glad. I had seen Dolly here and there, and each time
with a feeling of pity at the hopelessness of her struggle, and
of shame at knowing so much about her that I had no right to
know. She was what is known as "a pretty little thing," but there
was a certain recklessness which rather fascinated me. Her
dedication to the goddess of waste would have been less obvious
had she been less spirited--she would most certainly throw
herself away, but I was glad when I heard that the sacrifice
would not be consummated in my sight.

Anson was going to leave the letter of farewell at her house
next morning. It was one of the few houses left open in the Fifth
Avenue district, and he knew that the Kargers, acting upon
erroneous information from Dolly, had foregone a trip abroad to
give their daughter her chance. As he stepped out the door of the
Yale Club into Madison Avenue the postman passed him, and he
followed back inside. The first letter that caught his eye was in
Dolly's hand.

He knew what it would be--a lonely and tragic monologue, full
of the reproaches he knew, the invoked memories, the "I wonder
if's"--all the immemorial intimacies that he had communicated to
Paula Legendre in what seemed another age. Thumbing over some
bills, he brought it on top again and opened it. To his surprise
it was a short, somewhat formal note, which said that Dolly would
be unable to go to the country with him for the weekend, because
Perry Hull from Chicago had unexpectedly come to town. It added
that Anson had brought this on himself: "--if I felt that you
loved me as I love you I would go with you at any time, any
place, but Perry is so nice, and he so much wants me to
marry him--"

Anson smiled contemptuously--he had had experience with such
decoy epistles. Moreover, he knew how Dolly had labored over this
plan, probably sent for the faithful Perry and calculated the
time of his arrival--even labored over the note so that it would
make him jealous without driving him away. Like most compromises,
it had neither force nor vitality but only a timorous
despair.

Suddenly he was angry. He sat down in the lobby and read it
again. Then he went to the phone, called Dolly and told her in
his clear, compelling voice that he had received her note and
would call for her at five o'clock as they had previously
planned. Scarcely waiting for the pretended uncertainty of her
"Perhaps I can see you for an hour," he hung up the receiver and
went down to his office. On the way he tore his own letter into
bits and dropped it in the street.

He was not jealous--she meant nothing to him--but at her
pathetic ruse everything stubborn and self-indulgent in him came
to the surface. It was a presumption from a mental inferior and
it could not be overlooked. If she wanted to know to whom she
belonged she would see.

He was on the door-step at quarter past five. Dolly was
dressed for the street, and he listened in silence to the
paragraph of "I can only see you for an hour," which she had
begun on the phone.

"Put on your hat, Dolly," he said, "we'll take a walk."

They strolled up Madison Avenue and over to Fifth while
Anson's shirt dampened upon his portly body in the deep heat. He
talked little, scolding her, making no love to her, but before
they had walked six blocks she was his again, apologizing for the
note, offering not to see Perry at all as an atonement, offering
anything. She thought that he had come because he was beginning
to love her.

"I'm hot," he said when they reached 71st Street. "This is a
winter suit. If I stop by the house and change, would you mind
waiting for me downstairs? I'll only be a minute."

She was happy; the intimacy of his being hot, of any physical
fact about him, thrilled her. When they came to the iron-grated
door and Anson took out his key she experienced a sort of
delight.

Down-stairs it was dark, and after he ascended in the lift
Dolly raised a curtain and looked out through opaque lace at the
houses over the way. She heard the lift machinery stop, and with
the notion of teasing him pressed the button that brought it
down. Then on what was more than an impulse she got into it and
sent it up to what she guessed was his floor.

"Anson," she called, laughing a little.

"Just a minute," he answered from his bedroom . . . then after
a brief delay: "Now you can come in."

He had changed and was buttoning his vest. "This is my room,"
he said lightly. "How do you like it?"

She caught sight of Paula's picture on the wall and stared at
it in fascination, just as Paula had stared at the pictures of
Anson's childish sweethearts five years before. She knew
something about Paula--sometimes she tortured herself with
fragments of the story.

Suddenly she came close to Anson, raising her arms. They
embraced. Outside the area window a soft artificial twilight
already hovered, though the sun was still bright on a back roof
across the way. In half an hour the room would be quite dark. The
uncalculated opportunity overwhelmed them, made them both
breathless, and they clung more closely. It was eminent,
inevitable. Still holding one another, they raised their
heads--their eyes fell together upon Paula's picture, staring
down at them from the wall.

Suddenly Anson dropped his arms, and sitting down at his desk
tried the drawer with a bunch of keys.

"Like a drink?" he asked in a gruff voice.

"No, Anson."

He poured himself half a tumbler of whiskey, swallowed it, and
then opened the door into the hall.

"Come on," he said.

Dolly hesitated.

"Anson--I'm going to the country with you tonight, after all.
You understand that, don't you?"

"Of course," he answered brusquely.

In Dolly's car they rode on to Long Island, closer in their
emotions than they had ever been before. They knew what would
happen--not with Paula's face to remind them that something was
lacking, but when they were alone in the still, hot Long Island
night they did not care.

The estate in Port Washington where they were to spend the
week-end belonged to a cousin of Anson's who had married a
Montana copper operator. An interminable drive began at the lodge
and twisted under imported poplar saplings toward a huge, pink,
Spanish house. Anson had often visited there before.

After dinner they danced at the Linx Club. About midnight
Anson assured himself that his cousins would not leave before
two--then he explained that Dolly was tired; he would take her
home and return to the dance later. Trembling a little with
excitement, they got into a borrowed car together and drove to
Port Washington. As they reached the lodge he stopped and spoke
to the night-watchman.

"When are you making a round, Carl?"

"Right away."

"Then you'll be here till everybody's in?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right. Listen: if any automobile, no matter whose it is,
turns in at this gate, I want you to phone the house
immediately." He put a five-dollar bill into Carl's hand. "Is
that clear?"

"Yes, Mr. Anson." Being of the Old World, he neither winked
nor smiled. Yet Dolly sat with her face turned slightly away.

Anson had a key. Once inside he poured a drink for both of
them--Dolly left hers untouched--then he ascertained definitely
the location of the phone, and found that it was within easy
hearing distance of their rooms, both of which were on the first
floor.

Five minutes later he knocked at the door of Dolly's room.

"Anson?" He went in, closing the door behind him. She was in
bed, leaning up anxiously with elbows on the pillow; sitting
beside her he took her in his arms.

He did not listen. Over her head he perceived that the picture
of Paula was hanging here upon this wall.

He got up and went close to it. The frame gleamed faintly with
thrice-reflected moonlight--within was a blurred shadow of a face
that he saw he did not know. Almost sobbing, he turned around and
stared with abomination at the little figure on the bed.

"This is all foolishness," he said thickly. "I don't know what
I was thinking about. I don't love you and you'd better wait for
somebody that loves you. I don't love you a bit, can't you
understand?"

His voice broke, and he went hurriedly out. Back in the salon
he was pouring himself a drink with uneasy fingers, when the
front door opened suddenly, and his cousin came in.

"It was nothing," he interrupted, raising his voice so that it
would carry into Dolly's room. "She was a little tired. She went
to bed."

For a long time afterward Anson believed that a protective God
sometimes interfered in human affairs. But Dolly Karger, lying
awake and staring at the ceiling, never again believed in
anything at all.

VI

When Dolly married during the following autumn, Anson was in
London on business. Like Paula's marriage, it was sudden, but it
affected him in a different way. At first he felt that it was
funny, and had an inclination to laugh when he thought of it.
Later it depressed him--it made him feel old.

There was something repetitive about it--why, Paula and Dolly
had belonged to different generations. He had a foretaste of the
sensation of a man of forty who hears that the daughter of an old
flame has married. He wired congratulations and, as was not the
case with Paula, they were sincere--he had never really hoped
that Paula would be happy.

When he returned to New York, he was made a partner in the
firm, and, as his responsibilities increased, he had less time on
his hands. The refusal of a life-insurance company to issue him a
policy made such an impression on him that he stopped drinking
for a year, and claimed that he felt better physically, though I
think he missed the convivial recounting of those Celliniesque
adventures which, in his early twenties, had played such a part
of his life. But he never abandoned the Yale Club. He was a
figure there, a personality, and the tendency of his class, who
were now seven years out of college, to drift away to more sober
haunts was checked by his presence.

His day was never too full nor his mind too weary to give any
sort of aid to any one who asked it. What had been done at first
through pride and superiority had become a habit and a passion.
And there was always something--a younger brother in trouble at
New Haven, a quarrel to be patched up between a friend and his
wife, a position to be found for this man, an investment for
that. But his specialty was the solving of problems for young
married people. Young married people fascinated him and their
apartments were almost sacred to him--he knew the story of their
love-affair, advised them where to live and how, and remembered
their babies' names. Toward young wives his attitude was
circumspect: he never abused the trust which their
husbands--strangely enough in view of his unconcealed
irregularities--invariably reposed in him.

He came to take a vicarious pleasure in happy marriages, and
to be inspired to an almost equally pleasant melancholy by those
that went astray. Not a season passed that he did not witness the
collapse of an affair that perhaps he himself had fathered. When
Paula was divorced and almost immediately remarried to another
Bostonian, he talked about her to me all one afternoon. He would
never love any one as he had loved Paula, but he insisted that he
no longer cared.

"I'll never marry," he came to say; "I've seen too much of it,
and I know a happy marriage is a very rare thing. Besides, I'm
too old."

But he did believe in marriage. Like all men who spring from a
happy and successful marriage, he believed in it
passionately--nothing he had seen would change his belief, his
cynicism dissolved upon it like air. But he did really believe he
was too old. At twenty-eight he began to accept with equanimity
the prospect of marrying without romantic love; he resolutely
chose a New York girl of his own class, pretty, intelligent,
congenial, above reproach--and set about falling in love with
her. The things he had said to Paula with sincerity, to other
girls with grace, he could no longer say at all without smiling,
or with the force necessary to convince.

"When I'm forty," he told his friends, "I'll be ripe. I'll
fall for some chorus girl like the rest."

Nevertheless, he persisted in his attempt. His mother wanted
to see him married, and he could now well afford it--he had a
seat on the Stock Exchange, and his earned income came to
twenty-five thousand a year. The idea was agreeable: when his
friends--he spent most of his time with the set he and Dolly had
evolved--closed themselves in behind domestic doors at night, he
no longer rejoiced in his freedom. He even wondered if he should
have married Dolly. Not even Paula had loved him more, and he was
learning the rarity, in a single life, of encountering true
emotion.

Just as this mood began to creep over him a disquieting story
reached his ear. His aunt Edna, a woman just this side of forty,
was carrying on an open intrigue with a dissolute, hard-drinking
young man named Cary Sloane. Every one knew of it except Anson's
Uncle Robert, who for fifteen years had talked long in clubs and
taken his wife for granted.

Anson heard the story again and again with increasing
annoyance. Something of his old feeling for his uncle came back
to him, a feeling that was more than personal, a reversion toward
that family solidarity on which he had based his pride. His
intuition singled out the essential point of the affair, which
was that his uncle shouldn't be hurt. It was his first experiment
in unsolicited meddling, but with his knowledge of Edna's
character he felt that he could handle the matter better than a
district judge or his uncle.

His uncle was in Hot Springs. Anson traced down the sources of
the scandal so that there should be no possibility of mistake and
then he called Edna and asked her to lunch with him at the Plaza
next day. Something in his tone must have frightened her, for she
was reluctant, but he insisted, putting off the date until she
had no excuse for refusing.

She met him at the appointed time in the Plaza lobby, a
lovely, faded, gray-eyed blonde in a coat of Russian sable. Five
great rings, cold with diamonds and emeralds, sparkled on her
slender hands. It occurred to Anson that it was his father's
intelligence and not his uncle's that had earned the fur and the
stones, the rich brilliance that buoyed up her passing
beauty.

Though Edna scented his hostility, she was unprepared for the
directness of his approach.

"Edna, I'm astonished at the way you've been acting," he said
in a strong, frank voice. "At first I couldn't believe it."

"Believe what?" she demanded sharply.

"You needn't pretend with me, Edna. I'm talking about Cary
Sloane. Aside from any other consideration, I didn't think you
could treat Uncle Robert--"

"Now look here, Anson--" she began angrily, but his peremptory
voice broke through hers:

"--and your children in such a way. You've been married
eighteen years, and you're old enough to know better."

"You can't talk to me like that! You--"

"Yes, I can. Uncle Robert has always been my best friend." He
was tremendously moved. He felt a real distress about his uncle,
about his three young cousins.

Edna stood up, leaving her crab-flake cocktail untasted.

"This is the silliest thing--"

"Very well, if you won't listen to me I'll go to Uncle Robert
and tell him the whole story--he's bound to hear it sooner or
later. And afterward I'll go to old Moses Sloane."

Edna faltered back into her chair.

"Don't talk so loud," she begged him. Her eyes blurred with
tears. "You have no idea how your voice carries. You might have
chosen a less public place to make all these crazy
accusations."

He didn't answer.

"Oh, you never liked me, I know," she went on. "You're just
taking advantage of some silly gossip to try and break up the
only interesting friendship I've ever had. What did I ever do to
make you hate me so?"

Still Anson waited. There would be the appeal to his chivalry,
then to his pity, finally to his superior sophistication--when he
had shouldered his way through all these there would be
admissions, and he could come to grips with her. By being silent,
by being impervious, by returning constantly to his main weapon,
which was his own true emotion, he bullied her into frantic
despair as the luncheon hour slipped away. At two o'clock she
took out a mirror and a handkerchief, shined away the marks of
her tears and powdered the slight hollows where they had lain.
She had agreed to meet him at her own house at five.

When he arrived she was stretched on a chaise-longue which was
covered with cretonne for the summer, and the tears he had called
up at luncheon seemed still to be standing in her eyes. Then he
was aware of Cary Sloane's dark anxious presence upon the cold
hearth.

"What's this idea of yours?" broke out Sloane immediately. "I
understand you invited Edna to lunch and then threatened her on
the basis of some cheap scandal."

Anson sat down.

"I have no reason to think it's only scandal."

"I hear you're going to take it to Robert Hunter, and to my
father."

Anson nodded.

"Either you break it off--or I will," he said.

"What God damned business is it of yours, Hunter?"

"Don't lose your temper, Cary," said Edna nervously. "It's
only a question of showing him how absurd--"

"She most certainly is!" His anger mounted. "Why--she owes
this house and the rings on her fingers to my father's brains.
When Uncle Robert married her she didn't have a penny."

They all looked at the rings as if they had a significant
bearing on the situation. Edna made a gesture to take them from
her hand.

"I guess they're not the only rings in the world," said
Sloane.

"Oh, this is absurd," cried Edna. "Anson, will you listen to
me? I've found out how the silly story started. It was a maid I
discharged who went right to the Chilicheffs--all these Russians
pump things out of their servants and then put a false meaning on
them." She brought down her fist angrily on the table: "And after
Tom lent them the limousine for a whole month when we were South
last winter--"

"Do you see?" demanded Sloane eagerly. "This maid got hold of
the wrong end of the thing. She knew that Edna and I were
friends, and she carried it to the Chilicheffs. In Russia they
assume that if a man and a woman--"

He enlarged the theme to a disquisition upon social relations
in the Caucasus.

"If that's the case it better be explained to Uncle Robert,"
said Anson dryly, "so that when the rumors do reach him he'll
know they're not true."

Adopting the method he had followed with Edna at luncheon he
let them explain it all away. He knew that they were guilty and
that presently they would cross the line from explanation into
justification and convict themselves more definitely than he
could ever do. By seven they had taken the desperate step of
telling him the truth--Robert Hunter's neglect, Edna's empty
life, the casual dalliance that had flamed up into passion--but
like so many true stories it had the misfortune of being old, and
its enfeebled body beat helplessly against the armor of Anson's
will. The threat to go to Sloane's father sealed their
helplessness, for the latter, a retired cotton broker out of
Alabama, was a notorious fundamentalist who controlled his son by
a rigid allowance and the promise that at his next vagary the
allowance would stop forever.

They dined at a small French restaurant, and the discussion
continued--at one time Sloane resorted to physical threats, a
little later they were both imploring him to give them time. But
Anson was obdurate. He saw that Edna was breaking up, and that
her spirit must not be refreshed by any renewal of their
passion.

At two o'clock in a small night-club on 53d Street, Edna's
nerves suddenly collapsed, and she cried to go home. Sloane had
been drinking heavily all evening, and he was faintly maudlin,
leaning on the table and weeping a little with his face in his
hands. Quickly Anson gave them his terms. Sloane was to leave
town for six months, and he must be gone within forty-eight
hours. When he returned there was to be no resumption of the
affair, but at the end of a year Edna might, if she wished, tell
Robert Hunter that she wanted a divorce and go about it in the
usual way.

He paused, gaining confidence from their faces for his final
word.

"Or there's another thing you can do," he said slowly, "if
Edna wants to leave her children, there's nothing I can do to
prevent your running off together."

"I want to go home!" cried Edna again. "Oh, haven't you done
enough to us for one day?"

Outside it was dark, save for a blurred glow from Sixth Avenue
down the street. In that light those two who had been lovers
looked for the last time into each other's tragic faces,
realizing that between them there was not enough youth and
strength to avert their eternal parting. Sloane walked suddenly
off down the street and Anson tapped a dozing taxi-driver on the
arm.

It was almost four; there was a patient flow of cleaning water
along the ghostly pavement of Fifth Avenue, and the shadows of
two night women flitted over the dark façade of St.
Thomas's church. Then the desolate shrubbery of Central Park
where Anson had often played as a child, and the mounting
numbers, significant as names, of the marching streets. This was
his city, he thought, where his name had flourished through five
generations. No change could alter the permanence of its place
here, for change itself was the essential substratum by which he
and those of his name identified themselves with the spirit of
New York. Resourcefulness and a powerful will--for his threats in
weaker hands would have been less than nothing--had beaten the
gathering dust from his uncle's name, from the name of his
family, from even this shivering figure that sat beside him in
the car.

Cary Sloane's body was found next morning on the lower shelf
of a pillar of Queensboro Bridge. In the darkness and in his
excitement he had thought that it was the water flowing black
beneath him, but in less than a second it made no possible
difference--unless he had planned to think one last thought of
Edna, and call out her name as he struggled feebly in the
water.

VII

Anson never blamed himself for his part in this affair--the
situation which brought it about had not been of his making. But
the just suffer with the unjust, and he found that his oldest and
somehow his most precious friendship was over. He never knew what
distorted story Edna told, but he was welcome in his uncle's
house no longer.

Just before Christmas Mrs. Hunter retired to a select
Episcopal heaven, and Anson became the responsible head of his
family. An unmarried aunt who had lived with them for years ran
the house, and attempted with helpless inefficiency to chaperone
the younger girls. All the children were less self-reliant than
Anson, more conventional both in their virtues and in their
shortcomings. Mrs. Hunter's death had postponed the début
of one daughter and the wedding of another. Also it had taken
something deeply material from all of them, for with her passing
the quiet, expensive superiority of the Hunters came to an
end.

For one thing, the estate, considerably diminished by two
inheritance taxes and soon to be divided among six children, was
not a notable fortune any more. Anson saw a tendency in his
youngest sisters to speak rather respectfully of families that
hadn't "existed" twenty years ago. His own feeling of precedence
was not echoed in them--sometimes they were conventionally
snobbish, that was all. For another thing, this was the last
summer they would spend on the Connecticut estate; the clamor
against it was too loud: "Who wants to waste the best months of
the year shut up in that dead old town?" Reluctantly he
yielded--the house would go into the market in the fall, and next
summer they would rent a smaller place in Westchester County. It
was a step down from the expensive simplicity of his father's
idea, and, while he sympathized with the revolt, it also annoyed
him; during his mother's lifetime he had gone up there at least
every other week-end--even in the gayest summers.

Yet he himself was part of this change, and his strong
instinct for life had turned him in his twenties from the hollow
obsequies of that abortive leisure class. He did not see this
clearly--he still felt that there was a norm, a standard of
society. But there was no norm, it was doubtful if there had ever
been a true norm in New York. The few who still paid and fought
to enter a particular set succeeded only to find that as a
society it scarcely functioned--or, what was more alarming, that
the Bohemia from which they fled sat above them at table.

At twenty-nine Anson's chief concern was his own growing
loneliness. He was sure now that he would never marry. The number
of weddings at which he had officiated as best man or usher was
past all counting--there was a drawer at home that bulged with
the official neckties of this or that wedding-party, neckties
standing for romances that had not endured a year, for couples
who had passed completely from his life. Scarf-pins, gold
pencils, cuff-buttons, presents from a generation of grooms had
passed through his jewel-box and been lost--and with every
ceremony he was less and less able to imagine himself in the
groom's place. Under his hearty good-will toward all those
marriages there was despair about his own.

And as he neared thirty he became not a little depressed at
the inroads that marriage, especially lately, had made upon his
friendships. Groups of people had a disconcerting tendency to
dissolve and disappear. The men from his own college--and it was
upon them he had expended the most time and affection--were the
most elusive of all. Most of them were drawn deep into
domesticity, two were dead, one lived abroad, one was in
Hollywood writing continuities for pictures that Anson went
faithfully to see.

Most of them, however, were permanent commuters with an
intricate family life centering around some suburban country
club, and it was from these that he felt his estrangement most
keenly.

In the early days of their married life they had all needed
him; he gave them advice about their slim finances, he exorcised
their doubts about the advisability of bringing a baby into two
rooms and a bath, especially he stood for the great world
outside. But now their financial troubles were in the past and
the fearfully expected child had evolved into an absorbing
family. They were always glad to see old Anson, but they dressed
up for him and tried to impress him with their present
importance, and kept their troubles to themselves. They needed
him no longer.

A few weeks before his thirtieth birthday the last of his
early and intimate friends was married. Anson acted in his usual
rôle of best man, gave his usual silver tea-service, and
went down to the usual Homeric to say good-by. It was a
hot Friday afternoon in May, and as he walked from the pier he
realized that Saturday closing had begun and he was free until
Monday morning.

"Go where?" he asked himself.

The Yale Club, of course; bridge until dinner, then four or
five raw cocktails in somebody's room and a pleasant confused
evening. He regretted that this afternoon's groom wouldn't be
along--they had always been able to cram so much into such
nights: they knew how to attach women and how to get rid of them,
how much consideration any girl deserved from their intelligent
hedonism. A party was an adjusted thing--you took certain girls
to certain places and spent just so much on their amusement; you
drank a little, not much, more than you ought to drink, and at a
certain time in the morning you stood up and said you were going
home. You avoided college boys, sponges, future engagements,
fights, sentiment, and indiscretions. That was the way it was
done. All the rest was dissipation.

In the morning you were never violently sorry--you made no
resolutions, but if you had overdone it and your heart was
slightly out of order, you went on the wagon for a few days
without saying anything about it, and waited until an
accumulation of nervous boredom projected you into another
party.

The lobby of the Yale Club was unpopulated. In the bar three
very young alumni looked up at him, momentarily and without
curiosity.

"Hello there, Oscar," he said to the bartender. "Mr. Cahill
been around this afternoon?"

"Mr. Cahill's gone to New Haven."

"Oh . . . that so?"

"Gone to the ball game. Lot of men gone up."

Anson looked once again into the lobby, considered for a
moment, and then walked out and over to Fifth Avenue. From the
broad window of one of his clubs--one that he had scarcely
visited in five years--a gray man with watery eyes stared down at
him. Anson looked quickly away--that figure sitting in vacant
resignation, in supercilious solitude, depressed him. He stopped
and, retracing his steps, started over 47th Street toward Teak
Warden's apartment. Teak and his wife had once been his most
familiar friends--it was a household where he and Dolly Karger
had been used to go in the days of their affair. But Teak had
taken to drink, and his wife had remarked publicly that Anson was
a bad influence on him. The remark reached Anson in an
exaggerated form--when it was finally cleared up, the delicate
spell of intimacy was broken, never to be renewed.

"Is Mr. Warden at home?" he inquired.

"They've gone to the country."

The fact unexpectedly cut at him. They were gone to the
country and he hadn't known. Two years before he would have known
the date, the hour, come up at the last moment for a final drink,
and planned his first visit to them. Now they had gone without a
word.

Anson looked at his watch and considered a week-end with his
family, but the only train was a local that would jolt through
the aggressive heat for three hours. And to-morrow in the
country, and Sunday--he was in no mood for porch-bridge with
polite undergraduates, and dancing after dinner at a rural
roadhouse, a diminutive of gaiety which his father had estimated
too well.

"Oh, no," he said to himself. . . . "No."

He was a dignified, impressive young man, rather stout now,
but otherwise unmarked by dissipation. He could have been cast
for a pillar of something--at times you were sure it was not
society, at others nothing else--for the law, for the church. He
stood for a few minutes motionless on the sidewalk in front of a
47th Street apartment-house; for almost the first time in his
life he had nothing whatever to do.

Then he began to walk briskly up Fifth Avenue, as if he had
just been reminded of an important engagement there. The
necessity of dissimulation is one of the few characteristics that
we share with dogs, and I think of Anson on that day as some
well-bred specimen who had been disappointed at a familiar back
door. He was going to see Nick, once a fashionable bartender in
demand at all private dances, and now employed in cooling
non-alcoholic champagne among the labyrinthine cellars of the
Plaza Hotel.

"Nick," he said, "what's happened to everything?"

"Dead," Nick said.

"Make me a whiskey sour." Anson handed a pint bottle over the
counter. "Nick, the girls are different; I had a little girl in
Brooklyn and she got married last week without letting me
know."

"That a fact? Ha-ha-ha," responded Nick diplomatically.
"Slipped it over on you."

"Absolutely," said Anson. "And I was out with her the night
before."

"Ha-ha-ha," said Nick, "ha-ha-ha!"

"Do you remember the wedding, Nick, in Hot Springs where I had
the waiters and the musicians singing 'God save the King'?"

"Next time they were back for more, and I began to wonder how
much I'd paid them," continued Anson.

"--seems to me that was at Mr. Trenholm's wedding."

"Don't know him," said Anson decisively. He was offended that
a strange name should intrude upon his reminiscences; Nick
perceived this.

"Naw--aw--" he admitted, "I ought to know that. It was one of
your crowd--Brakins. . . . Baker--"

"Bicker Baker," said Anson responsively. "They put me in a
hearse after it was over and covered me up with flowers and drove
me away."

"Ha-ha-ha," said Nick. "Ha-ha-ha."

Nick's simulation of the old family servant paled presently
and Anson went up-stairs to the lobby. He looked around--his eyes
met the glance of an unfamiliar clerk at the desk, then fell upon
a flower from the morning's marriage hesitating in the mouth of a
brass cuspidor. He went out and walked slowly toward the
blood-red sun over Columbus Circle. Suddenly he turned around
and, retracing his steps to the Plaza, immured himself in a
telephone-booth.

Later he said that he tried to get me three times that
afternoon, that he tried every one who might be in New York--men
and girls he had not seen for years, an artist's model of his
college days whose faded number was still in his address
book--Central told him that even the exchange existed no longer.
At length his quest roved into the country, and he held brief
disappointing conversations with emphatic butlers and maids.
So-and-so was out, riding, swimming, playing golf, sailed to
Europe last week. Who shall I say phoned?

It was intolerable that he should pass the evening alone--the
private reckonings which one plans for a moment of leisure lose
every charm when the solitude is enforced. There were always
women of a sort, but the ones he knew had temporarily vanished,
and to pass a New York evening in the hired company of a stranger
never occurred to him--he would have considered that that was
something shameful and secret, the diversion of a travelling
salesman in a strange town.

Anson paid the telephone bill--the girl tried unsuccessfully
to joke with him about its size--and for the second time that
afternoon started to leave the Plaza and go he knew not where.
Near the revolving door the figure of a woman, obviously with
child, stood sideways to the light--a sheer beige cape fluttered
at her shoulders when the door turned and, each time, she looked
impatiently toward it as if she were weary of waiting. At the
first sight of her a strong nervous thrill of familiarity went
over him, but not until he was within five feet of her did he
realize that it was Paula.

"Why, Anson Hunter!"

His heart turned over.

"Why, Paula--"

"Why, this is wonderful. I can't believe it,
Anson!"

She took both his hands, and he saw in the freedom of the
gesture that the memory of him had lost poignancy to her. But not
to him--he felt that old mood that she evoked in him stealing
over his brain, that gentleness with which he had always met her
optimism as if afraid to mar its surface.

"We're at Rye for the summer. Pete had to come East on
business--you know of course I'm Mrs. Peter Hagerty now--so we
brought the children and took a house. You've got to come out and
see us."

"Can I?" he asked directly. "When?"

"When you like. Here's Pete." The revolving door functioned,
giving up a fine tall man of thirty with a tanned face and a trim
mustache. His immaculate fitness made a sharp contrast with
Anson's increasing bulk, which was obvious under the faintly
tight cut-away coat.

"You oughtn't to be standing," said Hagerty to his wife.
"Let's sit down here." He indicated lobby chairs, but Paula
hesitated.

"I've got to go right home," she said. "Anson, why don't
you--why don't you come out and have dinner with us to-night?
We're just getting settled, but if you can stand that--"

Hagerty confirmed the invitation cordially.

"Come out for the night."

Their car waited in front of the hotel, and Paula with a tired
gesture sank back against silk cushions in the corner.

"There's so much I want to talk to you about," she said, "it
seems hopeless."

"I want to hear about you."

"Well"--she smiled at Hagerty--"that would take a long time
too. I have three children--by my first marriage. The oldest is
five, then four, then three." She smiled again. "I didn't waste
much time having them, did I?"

"Boys?"

"A boy and two girls. Then--oh, a lot of things happened, and
I got a divorce in Paris a year ago and married Pete. That's
all--except that I'm awfully happy."

In Rye they drove up to a large house near the Beach Club,
from which there issued presently three dark, slim children who
broke from an English governess and approached them with an
esoteric cry. Abstractedly and with difficulty Paula took each
one into her arms, a caress which they accepted stiffly, as they
had evidently been told not to bump into Mummy. Even against
their fresh faces Paula's skin showed scarcely any weariness--for
all her physical languor she seemed younger than when he had last
seen her at Palm Beach seven years ago.

At dinner she was preoccupied, and afterward, during the
homage to the radio, she lay with closed eyes on the sofa, until
Anson wondered if his presence at this time were not an
intrusion. But at nine o'clock, when Hagerty rose and said
pleasantly that he was going to leave them by themselves for a
while, she began to talk slowly about herself and the past.

"My first baby," she said--"the one we call Darling, the
biggest little girl--I wanted to die when I knew I was going to
have her, because Lowell was like a stranger to me. It didn't
seem as though she could be my own. I wrote you a letter and tore
it up. Oh, you were so bad to me, Anson."

It was the dialogue again, rising and falling. Anson felt a
sudden quickening of memory.

"Weren't you engaged once?" she asked--"a girl named Dolly
something?"

"I wasn't ever engaged. I tried to be engaged, but I never
loved anybody but you, Paula."

"Oh," she said. Then after a moment: "This baby is the first
one I ever really wanted. You see, I'm in love now--at last."

He didn't answer, shocked at the treachery of her remembrance.
She must have seen that the "at last" bruised him, for she
continued:

"I was infatuated with you, Anson--you could make me do
anything you liked. But we wouldn't have been happy. I'm not
smart enough for you. I don't like things to be complicated like
you do." She paused. "You'll never settle down," she said.

The phrase struck at him from behind--it was an accusation
that of all accusations he had never merited.

"I could settle down if women were different," he said. "If I
didn't understand so much about them, if women didn't spoil you
for other women, if they had only a little pride. If I could go
to sleep for a while and wake up into a home that was really
mine--why, that's what I'm made for, Paula, that's what women
have seen in me and liked in me. It's only that I can't get
through the preliminaries any more."

Hagerty came in a little before eleven; after a whiskey Paula
stood up and announced that she was going to bed. She went over
and stood by her husband.

"Where did you go, dearest?" she demanded.

"I had a drink with Ed Saunders."

"I was worried. I thought maybe you'd run away."

She rested her head against his coat.

"He's sweet, isn't he, Anson?" she demanded.

"Absolutely," said Anson, laughing.

She raised her face to her husband.

"Well, I'm ready," she said. She turned to Anson: "Do you want
to see our family gymnastic stunt?"

"Yes," he said in an interested voice.

"All right. Here we go!"

Hagerty picked her up easily in his arms.

"This is called the family acrobatic stunt," said Paula. "He
carries me up-stairs. Isn't it sweet of him?"

"You'll find a pair of Pete's pajamas laid out for you. Sweet
dreams--see you at breakfast."

"Yes," Anson said.

VIII

The older members of the firm insisted that Anson should go
abroad for the summer. He had scarcely had a vacation in seven
years, they said. He was stale and needed a change. Anson
resisted.

"If I go," he declared, "I won't come back any more."

"That's absurd, old man. You'll be back in three months with
all this depression gone. Fit as ever."

"No." He shook his head stubbornly. "If I stop, I won't go
back to work. If I stop, that means I've given up--I'm
through."

"We'll take a chance on that. Stay six months if you
like--we're not afraid you'll leave us. Why, you'd be miserable
if you didn't work."

They arranged his passage for him. They liked Anson--every one
liked Anson--and the change that had been coming over him cast a
sort of pall over the office. The enthusiasm that had invariably
signalled up business, the consideration toward his equals and
his inferiors, the lift of his vital presence--within the past
four months his intense nervousness had melted down these
qualities into the fussy pessimism of a man of forty. On every
transaction in which he was involved he acted as a drag and a
strain.

"If I go I'll never come back," he said.

Three days before he sailed Paula Legendre Hagerty died in
childbirth. I was with him a great deal then, for we were
crossing together, but for the first time in our friendship he
told me not a word of how he felt, nor did I see the slightest
sign of emotion. His chief preoccupation was with the fact that
he was thirty years old--he would turn the conversation to the
point where he could remind you of it and then fall silent, as if
he assumed that the statement would start a chain of thought
sufficient to itself. Like his partners, I was amazed at the
change in him, and I was glad when the Paris moved off
into the wet space between the worlds, leaving his principality
behind.

"How about a drink?" he suggested.

We walked into the bar with that defiant feeling that
characterizes the day of departure and ordered four Martinis.
After one cocktail a change came over him--he suddenly reached
across and slapped my knee with the first joviality I had seen
him exhibit for months.

"Did you see that girl in the red tam?" he demanded, "the one
with the high color who had the two police dogs down to bid her
good-by."

"She's pretty," I agreed.

"I looked her up in the purser's office and found out that
she's alone. I'm going down to see the steward in a few minutes.
We'll have dinner with her to-night."

After a while he left me, and within an hour he was walking up
and down the deck with her, talking to her in his strong, clear
voice. Her red tam was a bright spot of color against the
steel-green sea, and from time to time she looked up with a
flashing bob of her head, and smiled with amusement and interest,
and anticipation. At dinner we had champagne, and were very
joyous--afterward Anson ran the pool with infectious gusto, and
several people who had seen me with him asked me his name. He and
the girl were talking and laughing together on a lounge in the
bar when I went to bed.

I saw less of him on the trip than I had hoped. He wanted to
arrange a foursome, but there was no one available, so I saw him
only at meals. Sometimes, though, he would have a cocktail in the
bar, and he told me about the girl in the red tam, and his
adventures with her, making them all bizarre and amusing, as he
had a way of doing, and I was glad that he was himself again, or
at least the self that I knew, and with which I felt at home. I
don't think he was ever happy unless some one was in love with
him, responding to him like filings to a magnet, helping him to
explain himself, promising him something. What it was I do not
know. Perhaps they promised that there would always be women in
the world who would spend their brightest, freshest, rarest hours
to nurse and protect that superiority he cherished in his
heart.